A Phantom's Beginning
by Ghostly Melody
Summary: "...with bated breath, Christine watched her destiny unfold." After her father's death, Christine Daaé is sent to live with the Girys on their country flat. With chores to do and daydreaming to be done, life is mundane. That is, until the eve of Christine's 16th birthday, when a strange man comes to call. With that, Christine's life changes-but for better or for worse? (AU). E/C.
1. Chapter One

**A/N: **

**This is a new fanfic I've decided to take on. I hope that, with renewed inspiration from seeing the live stage performance of ****_The Phantom of the Opera_**** last night, that I can truly stick to this story. **

**Also- I am in no way an expert on the French language-in fact, I'm currently stumbling my way through a second year of Spanish. If you notice anything incorrect in French phrasing throughout this story, please correct me and I will change it. Thank you!**

**And now, without further ado...**

_A Phantom's Beginning_

Chapter One

_1870_

On the eve of Christine Daaé's sixteenth birthday, her world changed forever.

The morning of her birthday, however, was quite the mundane affair.

It had enfolded just as her fifteenth birthday had—and without complaint, Christine did as she was expected.

Because really, what else _was_ there in her life?

By the time she rose to collect the eggs, the orange, watery sun had just begun to peer over the broad, verdant horizon. She traipsed across the lawn, feeling the residue of last night's rain seep betwixt the soles of her slippers. She gave a frown. As far as she could estimate-and from what she had heard frenetically whispered about town-rain was anticipated throughout the whole of the day and possibly into the week to come. Certainly nature could assuage the rain until the day after her birthday, couldn't it? With a shake of her head, she fetched the eggs, shooed away the insistent hens, and purged herself of a coat of alabaster feathers. She turned her heel; with the laden wicker basket tucked to her hip, she scurried as quickly as the eggs would allow her.

As she neared the house, the grass transitioned into gravel; she hastened pace. A great rivulet of sweat clambered down her back, staining the brown wool of her bodice to black. She gave the back door a tiny push of her foot and dashed inside. She faced the dilapidated wood stove as the placed the wicker basket aside.

"You're late."

With a jolt, Christine turned round to face the source of the noise.

A tall, imperious woman stood before her, an mask of wrinkles and obvious disapproval upon her face as she scrutinized the young woman. Her dark eyes darted to and fro as she assessed Christine's condition. With a tap of her cane, the aging woman gave a semblance of a smile. "However, considering today's date and the meaning it bolsters, I've decided to remiss about your folly."

As a certain, genuine smile melded across the woman's face, Christine wore one of her own to rival it. With great gusto, she flung herself into the older woman's arms and gave a squeeze. "Thank you, Madame-Thank you!" she breathlessly exclaimed.

The woman visibly stiffened, yet eventually dissolved to the saccharine nature of the girl's touch. She drew back. Holding her charge at arm's length, she gave a final smile-it was a crooked, mechanical sort of grin, as if the wearer had forgotten the means in which a smile actually _functioned_-guided Christine to a chair, and set about her work.

As Madame Giry went about her work, a gentle, giggling noise resounded from the stairs. The sound of swift, pattering footsteps followed suit, only to halt at the foot of the narrow staircase. The wood gave a tiny groan beneath the slippered feet, further affirming the presence of another certain young protégé-the descendant of the matriarch of the Giry flat herself.

Christine turned.

Another bout of tittering pursued the still air. Even Madame Giry, who was known to be steadfast in her work, had given pause. At once, a flaxen head emerged from the gloom, followed by the slender figure of a woman.

"Oh, _Christine_!" the girl called, bounding from the staircase. Her arms were folded conspicuously behind herself, and she wore a broad grin that further divulged her scheme. "I do believe I have something for you."

At once, and with a great flurry of arms and laughter, Meg approached Christine on lithe legs and presented a small, dampened cardboard box. Upon further inspection, Christine noticed several large punctures to the surface of the container. She glanced back up at Meg. "You shouldn't have."

"Oh, yes I should have!" Meg squealed, causing Madame Giry to drop her whisk with a hiss of annoyance. Meg gave her mother a sheepish smile then turned to Christine once more. "And it's a gift to trump the one you granted me on my seventeenth birthday."

"Ah, you're referring to that hideous scarf I made," Christine said. She gave an arch of her brow. "You know as well as any that I'm terrible with any sort of needle and that that gift you're referring to was an utter disaster."

Meg gnawed upon her lower lip. Indeed, Christine was as wandering and fumbling with needlework as an urban accountant is to a farmer's intricate plow. She didn't dare avow what everybody already knew. Instead, she placed the box in Christine's lap and insisted, "if you don't open my gift, Christine Daaé, I'll be sure that you dance with only the most boorish, most _hideous_ of men at your first dance."

At this reference, Christine gave a laugh. True, at age sixteen Christine Daaé had not had her first dance. The Girys were not of lofty social standing, however, and failed to give either young ladies of the house any sort of debut. In turn, Madame Giry promised each at a very young age that, if they were wholesome and good, they could attend local dances and parties held about town. It was all for fun, no sort of social gain. Christine had scant complaint in the concept; in fact, she was a proponent of it. Since age ten, she had been counting the days-nay, minutes!-until she was of age. With a final smirk, Christine pried open the lid of the package and peeked within.

A few seconds lapsed, and nothing stirred. She gazed into the tiny, vacuous space of darkness for quite some time, about to query aloud why on _earth_ Meg would give her an empty box when something caught her eye. She gasped.

The great, blue gaze of a kitten blinked back at her, just as stupefied as she was. Christine, with quavering hands, scooped the creature into her arms and gave a strangled cry of joy. "Oh, Meg! He's simply _perfect_. Thank you so very much!"

Meg gave a triumphant grin. She placed her fists against her hips, saying, "I found him outside of the barn last Tuesday morning-you should of seen him then! Such a scrawny and hapless little thing."  
>"However did you manage to conceal him from me?"<p>

"It was a work of magic unto itself," Meg said. "I kept him out in the barn and visited him whenever I could. But, being that you love to frequent that very location, I had to be crafty about it."

As Meg went on about her tactics, Madame Giry came round the table and eyed the kitten. She opened her mouth, stopped, then said, "My gift surely is no match to Meg's."

Madame Giry retreated from the room and reappeared several moments later with a simple, oblong box beneath her arms. She gave it to Christine, who gave the cat to Meg, who deposited the cat to the floor. Christine, with a swell of trepidation, looked to Madame Giry for confirmation. After giving a nod, the older woman smiled. With slow, agonizing movements-and squawks of "hurry up, Christine!" from Meg-Christine lifted the lid of the box. Her gaze widened.

It was a simple dress of blue chiffon, yet it held the otherworldly quality of gold and jewels itself. Christine's small, pale hands traced the lace of the sweetheart neckline, down to the front panel of tiny, faux pearls. Oh, she couldn't envision the price!

Before she could speak, Madame Giry said, "I had Madame LeBeau-"

"LeBeau? That haughty seamstress?" Meg chirped. Upon realizing her mistake, she gave a quiet apology.

"Yes. The seamstress," Madame Giry grated out. "I had Madame LeBeau go about making you a dress." She didn't add the part that LeBeau had sold it to her at half price because the chiffon was old material from a former project for a traveling noble; that would just sound miserly, and that was the last image Madame Giry wanted to convey of herself. Sincerity, however, welled in her voice as she said, "Just as I gave Meg a fine gown of her own on her sixteenth birthday, I wanted you to have the same. I'd like you to know that I think of you as a daughter, Christine, and I care for you very much."

At Christine's feet, the kitten gave an indignant mew. Christine glanced down at him before giving the two woman a smile. "Thank you both for your gifts. They were truly wonderful."

With a humble wave of the hand, Madame Giry strode back to the opposing side of the tottering table and laid out the meal she had prepared-three separate plates of eggs with fine grain from the market. With the sound of the rustling of skirts, a defiant kitten, and the commonplace din of a farm in the background, the three dined. It was a simple fare, yet a mighty king's breakfast could not hold half a candle to the elation and spirit felt at the table. Christine looked across at Meg, then at Madame Giry, and smiled.

* * *

><p>On the same day, at precisely half past ten, there came a sharp rapping at the front door. Christine sat upright in bed. She clutched her sheets about her torso, her eyes widened in bewilderment. She stilled, then listened once more. The walls of the flat were very thin indeed-<em>almost like paper<em>, Meg had once said-and nothing could go unheard.

Except, perhaps, in the cellar.

Christine strained to hear. Had the noise been an apparition? A trick of her overly-imaginative mind? The rain struck against the windowpane, watery fists entreating entrance. The sky gave way to a flicker of light. Through the mere seconds of illumination, Christine spied Meg; the older girl slept soundly in her cot across the way. A great crack of thunder roiled across the welkin, causing Christine to jump. She was about to return to a restless sleep when she heard it.

The pounding.

It came in a quick, adamant succession. It was commanding, riveting, frightening-yet enthralling.

Christine, out of her own volition, drew her robe about her and tiptoed out onto the top of the stairs. Swathed in shadow, she waited.

As a third round of rapping broke out, Christine spied Madame Giry scuttle from the kitchen and out into the dim room that served as the foyer. From her perch overlooking the home's entrance, and with bated breath, Christine watched her destiny unfold.

"_Attendez_! I'm coming!" Madame Giry shouted. She lifted a single, flickering lantern before her; it cast an ochre glow across the carpet, which gave birth to twisting, sinister shadows. Madame Giry placed the lantern upon a peg on the wall and unlocked the door.

It swung wide, bringing forth a cold spray of rain and leaves. Madame Giry placed a hand atop her brow and peered into the gloom. "_Qui est là_?"

The deep, resonating voice that slithered into the foyer stopped the churning blood in Christine's veins. "It's me, Madame."

Almost instantaneously, Madame Giry beckoned the figure inside. Beneath the cloak which concealed his face, Christine noticed the graceful, almost methodical way in which he moved. His feet, although large, moved about silently, a stark contrast to Madame Giry's own sluggish, drowsy steps. He hovered above the matriarch, neither of them moving.

"It's been five years," Madame Giry whispered. "I hear not a word from you in five years, and yet you appear at my doorstep begging that I offer lodging?

There was a supercilious way in which he spoke. "Madame, I had believed we were something similar to friends."

At this, Madame Giry gave a pause. She shook her head, as if clearing it. "We are, monsieur- but conventional friends do not arrive in the dead of night, without any prior notice, demanding a place to sleep."

His next words stopped Christine's heart. "I am _not_ a conventional man."

A moment lapsed. Then another. With hesitation, Madame Giry led the man down the foyer, toward the kitchen. With a weighted voice, she said, "It's not much, but the cellar can be of use to you."

"Thank you, Madame," the man said. There was a self-assured way in which he spoke, yet the quavering of his gratitude betrayed some sort of masked fear.

A shuffling of paws behind her wrested Christine from her reverie. She turned round to glimpse Aldric- that is what she had decided to name her cat-plodding across the floor toward her. She gathered him into her arms. He gave a surprised meow. She froze.

Both Madame Giry and the stranger halted in their tracks, their eyes floating up toward the stairs. Christine shrunk back into the shadows, waiting an eternity until Madame Giry at last lost interest.

The man, however, did not waver.

"Come," Madame Giry said, taking the man by the arm. She wound about the foyer, almost leading-because he appeared to be a man that could never be lead- the stranger into the kitchen.

Christine stayed in her hunched position for minutes, possibly hours. It wasn't until the first slanted fingers of dawn shoved their way into the foyer window did she rise, collected Aldric, and steal away to the bedroom. She drew the covers about her small frame and waited.

Sleep would not come.

**A/N: **

**Reviews are greatly appreciated! (:**


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N:**

**Thanks for the reviews! They keep me going!**

**Also- I typed up this chapter on my tablet, so please pay no mind to any spelling or grammatical errors. :) **

_A Phantom's Beginning_

Chapter Two

Call him deranged, but he just could not stop thinking of her.

He had spied her through the fissures in the banister, her inquisitive eyes alight with consternation; he had studied her, _scrutinized _her. And his interest had only piqued at the revelation that it was not that screeching girl, Meg- who he had come in contact with five years prior- but an entirely foreign specimen. Had his hostess taken note on the girl's presence, he was bereft of a whim; Antoinette had made not notification of it. Not even the slightest, audible gasp.

Ergo, with the girl's haunted eyes tunneling through his every fluctuation of thought, he had a most challenging time focusing on the old friend across the table.

"The least you could offer is to inform me as to why you're here," Madame Giry hissed across the expanse of silence . "The last time I saw you, you were roaming the hovels of Paris..."

The man leveled a hand; Antoinette ceased prattling. Through the gloom of the room- which was illuminated by a sole lantern- he assessed her with narrowed eyes. "I can assure you, Madame, that I intend no harm to you or your daughter."

Madame Giry drew her robe about her. "Is that so? Because I'm dangerously cognizant of your...ill reputation."

He couldn't suppress the irked growl that reverberated across his chest. The pressure of the pallid mask upon his face increased tenfold; he found himself suffocating from the mere notion of it. "_Dammit, woman_- I'm not some serial fiend. My blows are calculated and intentional-" a grin slit across his face- "for the majority of instances, anyhow."

The weathered woman fixated him with her pweter glower. "If you are to stay here, I am going to propose a number of conditions to which you must comply."

He gave a noncommittal shrug. He splayed his hands outward, gloved palms facing his hostess. "As you wish..."

"I'm not toying with you, monsieur. My conditions are utterly valid."

"Then please, go on," he persisted, amusement slithering across his words.

"Very well," she proceeded. She tilted her chin up, studying him beneath the half-drawn, twin curtains of her eyelids. Her mouth puckered. "No interaction is to come between you and my Meg."

The vagrant snorted. "Easily done."

Madame Giry hesitated at his comment, then said, "You are not to leave the cellar unless I permit your exit."

At this, he gave a pause.

"Mounsier...?" Antoinette pressed.

"Agreed," he grumbled. He laced his arms about his chest. "Is there anything else you implore of me, Madame?"

"As a matter of fact...yes. Tell me why you're here."

The man's face slacked, deadpan.

"_Tell me_, or this house is no longer your haven," Antoinette threatened. Her eyes glittered malice.

The table swayed-as it was always want to do those days-and with it the lantern. The peculiar, amber flames and aphotic creases of shadows shifted across his face as a sneer materialized. "...I may have run into an otherwise...unfortunate debacle with an idiot man."

Madame Giry froze. "_What_...what do you mean?"

The man's hands coiled. "The bastard came at me in the dead of night with a knife. I had no other option!"

Madame Giry hovered a quavering hand above her heart. "Were there witnesses?"

"Of course not," the man snapped. "Do you take me as an imbecile, Madame?" He stopped, then continued, "I desposed of the body. It is unlikely that it will be located."

Madame Giry's hand snaked from her breast to her brow. She bemoaned, "I'm housing a fugitive..."

"It's not as if I _desired _to kill the man!" He roared, tossing his hands into the air as he rose.

"With you, I never know," she said, clipped.

He lowered himself into his wooden seat and inquired, "Who was that I heard on the stairs?"

"I haven't a clue what you're referring to, mounsier," Antoinette said, her gaze plummeting to her fists, which then perched atop the table.

"It couldn't of been a mouse, could it...?" His ire escalated as the woman before him remained mute. "Tell me, Madame, or I can promise you that our conditions are void."

Her stare traversed his smug countenance. "Christine Daaé is a sort of ward of mine. I took her in when her father passed on years ago."

A sort of delirious interest ignited in his gaze. "How...exceptionally interesting."

"Don't you go getting any of your schemes into your head," she rasped.

"Oh, Madame...," he chuckled. "Never underestimate the mind of a ghost."

"I'm being candid, Erik," Antoinette insisted. The sinewy cords about her throat constricted. "That young woman is like a daughter to me, and-"

"I was only speaking in jest." His voice was laced with coy deviousness.

His hostess quirked a brow.

_Indeed,_ he thought as he leaned back into his chair, steepling his elongated fingers. _I may have some fun with this Christine Daaé yet._

**A/N-**

**Sorry that it's brief! I'm sick right now, so I'm running on fumes.**


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N:**

**I'm going on a trip today (I'm also still sick), so I can't promise that I'll be able to update as often as I'd like. The trip will last about a week; I'll see if I can write during then.**

**I wrote several different versions of this chapter, each never quite matching what I wanted. I'm not even entirely sure this version pleases me. I hope it's good enough. Please forgive any errors; I don't use a beta (though I probably should).**

**Also- this chapter is another quickie; I'm sorry about that, I just wanted to get it up before I indefinitely lose internet access.**

**Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites. They keep me going.**

**Now, on to the next chapter...**

_A Phantom's Beginning_

Chapter Three

She wasn't entirely certain as to why, but she had to know what was in the cellar.

Perhaps it was the alarming thrill of disobedience, or the heightened sensation of forbidden vice, or even the nagging concern that whatever lurked below her feet had wrested her mind.

Whatever it was, she didn't consider it.

It was the witching hour; Christine could glimpse just a tiny sliver of moonlight through the window. A deep ribbon of charcoal sky fanned the horizon, swathing the ambient world in a perpetual mystique. She narrowed her stare. She could discern nothing but the night.

Without another draw of breath, without another inkling of doubt, and without another heartbeat, she took to the floor and out to the staircase.

Mindful to keep her tread light, she gripped the railing with a quavering palm and dashed down the irregular path. A step or so until the terminus it gave way with a fit of moans and creaks.

A thrill galvanized her spine.

She froze.

And waited.

She waited for seconds, minutes, hours for the approach of another being.

The stillness offered no token.

At a snail's pace, Christine descended the remaining three steps and pressed out onto the foyer.

How many days had it been since the arrival of the clandestine guest? Two? Three? Time had blurred, ragged at the seams, forming an amalgam she could scarcely process nor fathom. Her world had been submerged in a boundless night; she could consider nothing but the notion of discovery.

Her heart thrummed on, a great drum in her chest. Each step coupled her pulse. The vision of the cellar door came into focus through the gloom- hazy, ambiguous, flickering to her drowsy gaze. She took a few, stuttering steps.

And opened the door.

Christine was jarred, baffled, stupefied that the door had been unlocked. Perhaps Madame Giry had neglected the task because she had forgotten.

Or perhaps whoever-whatever-was inside was meant to come in.

As if surveying the scene from above, she watched as her feet took the short degression into the depths of the place she had always been forbidden to traipse. Each step protested against her weight; the wood let out sharp dissents with the added pressure of her foot. She took in a breath. The insipid, scorching taste of dust and abandonment seized her throat, ballooned her lungs. She resisted a cough and lowered herself still into the cavernous unknown.

Upon reaching her destination, she began to chide herself. How could she have been so delinquent as to forget a source of light? Her eyes darted about, yet saw only the familiar curtain of black.

What on earth was she doing?

"I dont know who you are or where you've gone to, Christine, but I don't care for this one bit," she reprimanded herself with a private whisper. A sort of perverse consciousness settled atop her chest, clenching her heart in an unwavering fist. She picked up the hem of her skirt, turning to leave when she heard it.

Him.

"Well, you certainly aren't any sort of mouse, my dear. Or am I mistaken?"

A sudden, violent burst of light captured her attention. He lit a match-perhaps more for her sake than his own- and drew the trembling flame to her equally quivering countenance. "Yes. You are clearly a girl. A slight one at that, if I may say so."

A deep, resonating chuckle occupied the void of silence he left behind. He placed a hand to his stomach, his laughter dwindling. With a qualm, she noticed that he failed to irridate the right half of his face. He continued, "A lady of little words, I see."

"Who...who are you?" Christine managed at last.

He sighed; the match's light vanished.

Then, a lapse of silence. She was almost certain she was hallucinating the entire scenario when she heard a rustle of fabric, a squeal of shoes, and the distinct musk of him draw closer.

"I am none of your concern," his growl wreathed about her ears, penetrating her coherency.

The light returned, just as feeble and impotent as the last.

She felt a current of frustration scratch at her mind; it propelled her forth. With a stamp of her foot, she exclaimed, "You are also a residence of my home. I demand you tell me your name."

"I don't believe that you possess the right to make such...frivolous demands of me, madamousille," he rasped. "Nor do I care to divulge any of my personal information to a _complete stranger_."

Another bout of exasperation lacerated her thoughts. "Mounsier, I-"

"Madameousille, if you please," he grated, taking a swift, clipped stride toward her. His shadow engulfed her face, causing her to slit her eyes in bewilderment. He ghosted a gloved hand at her throat. "I'm a very busy man, and I have little patience for queries and insistencies."

All at once, the room was purged of light. His hands were upon her, urging her, commanding her, _governering_ her. She gave an involuntary gasp as her foot connected with something solid- wood, a wooden step. Christine lurched forward. He captured her by the shoulders, a contrastingly gentle gesture. Before she had the opportunity, or sense, to turn round, the cellar door was flung wide and she was out in the foyer once more.

His hands hovered above her spine. She could feel the impress of his hands like a conflagration through her chemise.

"Thank you for your compliance," he muttered bitterly.

Christine turned as a frigid chill inundated the spot where his hands had been.

She blinked; he was gone.


End file.
